


Doctor Watson's Hiccup Cure-All

by rinwolfe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 69, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Awkward, Blow Jobs, Crack, First Time, Hiccups, Humor, M/M, Minor Angst, Rimming, dumb, safe sex, sex with socks on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 11:32:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2730887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rinwolfe/pseuds/rinwolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has the hiccups and REFUSES to go to the crime scene until they stop.  Doctor Watson has a few tricks up his sleeve.</p>
<p>Chapter One in 한국어 at https://blog.naver.com/comberbitch/220420150995 by Sue :-]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Doctor Watson's Diagnosis

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you bisexualdeanwinchester.tumblr.com for this idea.  
> Not beta'd or brit-picked.  
> Sherlock is a raging bottom FIGHT ME

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has the hiccups. Madness ensues.

"Boo!"

"Really, John, you are - *hic* - right in front of me. There is no - *hic* - way that would work, even if - *hic* - these muscle spasms could be stopped like that. *Hic.*"

"Yeah, well, just giving it a go," John said peevishly.

Sherlock responded by pouting at his phone, the effect ruined by yet another hiccup. John smiled slightly, enjoying the way the consulting drama queen's flair was ruined. He wouldn't admit it at gunpoint, but John was rather jealous of the way the man could draw the attention of the entire room and _work it_.

"Find any other cures?" John eventually tried, taking his cup of tea all of five feet to the kitchen table so he could sit. So far they had tried drinking water upside-down (which only caused Sherlock to spill all over the floor), eating honey (Sherlock was still spooning it out of the jar, but John had decided it was no longer for medicinal purposes), and, most recently, scaring them out of his flatmate. Yet still, the man hiccuped.

"It says here mild exercise - *hic* - can stop them." Sherlock threw his phone down onto the table and started unbuttoning his shirt.

"Sherlock, we don't have time for that! Lestrade wanted you at the crime scene twenty minutes ago!"

Sherlock paused his ministrations with his shirt and glared daggers at John. And hiccuped.

"Come on, just go to the crime scene. No one will say anything." John knew it was a lie, but he really didn't see the big deal. The hiccups would go away once Sherlock stopped focusing on them. They'd probably be gone as soon as Sherlock saw the bodies.

Sherlock didn't even take the time to throw John a nasty stare. Instead, he threw his shirt at John, and proceeded to march into the middle of the sitting room. Once John wrestled the shirt off of his face, he turned around in his seat and stared at the bare-torso-ed Sherlock doing crunches on the floor. Of _course_ the man didn't wear a vest under shirts that tight. John did not stare at the flat planes of Sherlock's abs. He did not wet his lips as he imagined pinching Sherlock's small, pebbled nipples. And John's mouth definitely did not start to water as he imagined tasting the small rivulets of sweat forming along Sherlock's sides. In no way did these things happen.

Instead, John said, "Sherlock, we really don't have the time."

Sherlock glared at John, and hiccuped. Then glared at his own body as if it had called his mother a whore, slapped his father, and given Mycroft a slice of cake. The message was clear - _We're not going anywhere until my transport listens to me._

John rolled his eyes and picked up Sherlock's phone, as the exercise idea was, so far, not working. The search was still up, and John carefully moved the search results down. Some of them were silly - chase a chicken, hold your breath, eat something smelly. Some of them were medically inadvisable - lick your elbow, lick a toad, swallow a fish live. But the one that made John laugh was the penultimate result on the first search page, which read:

_"Some medical professionals have found stimulating the genitals - specifically the anus and, when available, the prostate - to be a quick cure for even the most stubborn cases of hiccups."_

John had no idea how that was supposed to work. There was no way it _could_ work. But when Sherlock asked, still hiccuping, what had made him laugh, John told him. Sherlock was off to the bathroom like a shot, still half-dressed and sweaty. John stumbled up after him, almost tripping over the kitchen chair in his haste, and made it to the bathroom door just as Sherlock locked it.

John did not, in any way, shape, or form, take a moment to picture a sweaty, naked Sherlock in the bathtub with his fingers up his rear. And John definitely was not feeling the stirrings of arousal as he knocked on the door and said, "Sherlock, I really don't think that's going to help. Try holding your breath instead."

Absolute silence filled the flat for a good fifteen seconds before a slight hiccup was heard coming from the bathroom.

"Didn't work! Grab me - *hic* - some of that lube you have in - *hic* - your second drawer. I've run out of the medical-grade - *hic* - lubrication in here."

John wasn't sure how Sherlock knew about his new brand-new bottle of lube, or how he had run out of a litre of medical-grade lubrication in a week. John barely managed a strangled, "How?"

"Experi - *hic* - ments, John! Now hurry! This crime scene is - *hic* - at least a seven!" Sherlock sounded moderately strained, and John heard the rustle of clothes coming from within the bathroom.

Experiments, right. John knew he really needed to stop letting that work as an excuse for everything. He let out a long-suffering sigh. "Fine," John said, and went to grab his new, never-before-used lube.

He knocked once again when he reached the door. "Sherlo-"

"John, good, you're - *hic* - back. I'm afraid - *hic* - I've deleted where it is."

"Where what is?" John took a hilarious moment to imagine Sherlock not remembering where his genitals are. He did not, no way no how, then proceed to imagine himself reminding Sherlock exactly where they were.

"My prostate, John!"

John was, at this moment in time, very glad he did not have his tea with him and that it was instead cooling rapidly on the table, because if he had been taking a sip of it at that precise second, he would have surely spit it out in shock. Instead, John gaped in a manner that he, upon later reflection, would call quite fish-like. He allowed himself a second of shock before allowing a shroud of professionalism fall over him. He was a doctor, damn it, and he would act like it. No matter how awkward this conversation got.

"Sherlock, your prostate is inside your anus on the anterior wall." He waited a second, shut his eyes, pretended this wasn't happening and that he was definitely not at half-mast from imagining showing Sherlock exactly _where_ his prostate was, and then continued. "It's located inside your perineum."

John heard a flurry of movement inside the bathroom and the door cracked open, revealing Sherlock's face and part of his shoulder. Good, he'd decided to be modest today.

"What does it feel like?" He inquired, his voice low. And then he hiccuped.

John was taken aback. He hadn't expected this sort of personal question, and honestly wasn't quite prepared for it. "It uh - it feels - uh it feels like little shocks of pleasure, all down your spine -"

"Very illumin - *hic* - ating, John, but I meant the - *hic* - prostate itself."

"Oh." John turned beet red. "It's a small bump, about the size of a walnut."

"Thank - *hic* - you." Sherlock grabbed the bottle of lube and slammed the door shut.

John turned away from the door and slid down the wall. Oh, God, what could Sherlock deduce from that slip-up? He shuddered slightly in fear, before steeling himself. He had fought in Afghanistan, for fuck's sake! He could stand up to admitting he had a slight crush on his flatmate. The world wasn't going to end.

And then he heard a distinctive, "OW!" from the bathroom.

"Sherlock, you okay in there?" John tentatively asked.

Instead of an answer, John heard another flurry of limbs, and then Sherlock opened the door all the way open. Well, damn, John was wrong about Sherlock being modest today. Sherlock lobbed the bottle of lube at John, which barely missed, but hit John square in the chest with the box of gloves.

"MAKE - *hic* - IT - *hic* - STOP!" he roared. Sherlock made quite an image, back lit by the bright bathroom light as he was, chest heaving.

"Sherlock, that's a bit - "

"You're a doctor! *Hic*! Do something!" Sherlock had a feral gleam in his eye. John was alarmed.

"Sherlock -"

"NOW!"

John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock looked at John. Sherlock's look seemed to say, _"Man up! You're a doctor, you fought in Afghanistan, you can put a finger in your best mate's rear!"_ John's look pleaded, _"Please don't make me do that, we really should be helping Lestrade with his crime scene, not giving me wet dreams for the rest of the month."_ Sherlock's look responded, _"We are not leaving this house until this horrendous piece of transportation listens to me!"_

John sighed and stood up. He was going to do this. He was going to stick his finger up his flatmate's bum because the daft man wouldn't go to work with the hiccups. Let it never be said that John was not a generous man.

Sherlock and John stood at attention momentarily before Sherlock hiccuped, turned around, leaned against the toilet, and presented his rear. He staunchly refused to look at John, who staunchly refused to look at him. Or rather, John could not move his gaze away from Sherlock's pert arse, with its slightly reddened hole which gleamed slightly in the light. Probably from the lubrication. John, though he would not admit it to this day, was drooling slightly from the corner of his mouth. Sherlock hiccuped, and John got back to the task at hand. He applied a rubber glove to his left hand, then applied a generous amount of lube to his palm. He rubbed his fingers around in it, making sure they were properly slick, before approaching Sherlock from behind. John debated talking through his steps as he would with a new patient, but found he couldn't speak. Instead, he placed his right hand on Sherlock's lower back, grounding him, letting him know it was about to start. Sherlock spread his legs wider, then hiccuped yet again.

This was it. This was the moment of truth, the moment John, no matter what he might say, had been waiting for. Slowly, he brought his gloved finger to Sherlock's anus. Sherlock sighed, then hiccuped, at the contact, almost short-circuiting John's poor brain. Fortunately, John was made of sturdy stuff, and began rubbing the ring of muscle with a single finger. Sherlock shivered, and John unconsciously began rubbing his friend's lower back in gentle circles. Carefully, he teased the ring of muscle, relaxing it open. Soon he was able to stick a single finger in, and was surprised to find Sherlock thrusting backwards slightly onto the digit. John swallowed hard, and began searching for Sherlock's prostate. Due to the fact he was a professional and highly trained, he found the gland quickly. Also due to the fact he was a professional and highly trained, he restrained himself from ripping off his trousers and humping his flatmate when the aforementioned flatmate let out an absolutely _sinful_ moan.

"Oh - *hic* - God, John."

That stopped John in his tracks. What the hell was he supposed to do with _that_? Quickly his brain went on auto-pilot, and he began treating the whole incident as a regular prostate-check-up. He gently felt around the gland with one finger, before slipping in a second digit and gently palpating it. His doctoral-lobe, the only part of his brain currently fully functioning, noted that it was rather small, but of average texture and of regular shape. And then Sherlock ground up against his fingers.

"I - *hic* - think I need more. It's - *hic* - not working." 

John vaguely thought, _"I've heard that line in a porno,"_ before falling to his knees and _lapping_ at the slightly-stretched hole in front of him. The first thing John registered was the taste, which was slightly musky, but mostly sweet due to the flavor of the lube. Then he registered the texture, slippery and smooth and human. Finally, John registered the deep, rumbling moan emanating from Sherlock. The pale man had thrown his head back and was almost _howling_ with pleasure at John's pink tongue lapping at his arse.

"Oh, John, yes, please, oh god, _more_!"

And there was the consent John should have waited for. To make up for it, John threw himself at his task with abandon - he sloppily kissed the puckered muscle, licked the skin all around it, even bit at the curve of Sherlock's arse - all to the taller man's apparent pleasure. Eventually he stuck his tongue out - and into Sherlock's anus. Slowly he pumped his tongue in and out, drawing sounds John didn't even know where physically possible from the other man. His pace picked up and he added a single gloved digit into Sherlock, gently stroking his prostate, ravishing the little pink hole.

"Jesus, John, please, fuck me, please!"

It was at that moment that John realized he had, in fact, been humping Sherlock's calf - the pale limb was in between his legs, and rubbing against his insistent erection. It was also at that moment that John stopped his ministrations and mentally sat back to assess the situation. He was _tongue-fucking_ his flatmate. In the bathroom. When they should be on a case. Because Sherlock had the hiccups.

Sherlock turned his head around to stare at John almost in horror, his eyes wide and his pupils dilated, face flushed, but mouth agape in a way that said not pleasure but shock. Quickly he stood up and began stammering, and it took John a second to realize he was _apologizing._

"I'm so sorry John, I don't know what came over me, but clearly that was a line, I am so sorry I do hope we can still be friends, even with my - erm - attraction and clearly your response was all due to your sexual frustration -"

John pulled him down by the shoulder and kissed him. Deeply, passionately.

"You're an idiot," John said. "You've missed it completely." Then he dove back into Sherlock's barely-responding mouth, licking at his plush upper lip and biting ever-so-softly on the lower one. John could almost hear Sherlock's mind reboot, and when it did, Sherlock positively attacked John's mouth. The taller, pale man fell to the ground as well, straddling John's lap and prodding the doctor's stomach with his long, somewhat curved erection. John grabbed at Sherlock's arse, all plush and soft, while Sherlock cupped John's weathered cheeks.

They kissed not as people usually do in fan works. They did not battle for dominance, and their tongues did not fight. Instead, their lips sought each other out, and desired to caress each other gently. Their tongues flashed out, quickly, to teasingly lick the other's lips, and the balance of give-and-take echoed the rest of their relationship. Their kisses brought life and joy to the other, and soon they kissed as if kissing each other was all they had ever known.

Slowly, gasping for breath, they pulled apart, staring into each other's eyes in what John suspected was the sappiest moment of Sherlock's life.

"Your hiccups have stopped," John said.

"Mmm, yes," Sherlock rumbled, moving to nibble at John's neck.

"You," John ordered, pulling away slightly, "need to text Lestrade."

"What?! Why?" Sherlock exclaimed, aghast.

"Because," John answered, moving to stand, "There's a murderer on the loose."

Sherlock's eyes lit up and he bounced upright, nearly forgetting to put trousers on before he was out the door.


	2. Sherlock Schools Doctor Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And by "schools" I mean rides him like a horse.  
> Unbeta'd and unbritpicked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aka "That time Sherlock didn't take his socks off during sex."

John jumped into the taxi, fighting to keep a smile off his face. Sherlock slid in after him, more sedately, and closed the door behind him.

"221B Baker Street, please," Sherlock said, still mildly out-of-breath from the chase. The car took off, and as soon as the crime scene - and most importantly, Lestrade - was out of sight, John finally broke down laughing. Sherlock turned slightly towards him, merely cocking an eyebrow.

John knew that look. It was the, "what are you daring to do in my presence, you silly mortal?" look. He laughed harder, tears beginning to leak from his eyes. This caused Sherlock to harrumph, roll his eyes, and turn away.

"They... they threw a fish at you!"

Sherlock scoffed. "They threw a _Pterois volitans_ at my face. Had I not ducked in time, I may have ended up like our victim."

That _almost_ sobered John up. Almost. "But you did! God, you should have seen the look on your face."

Sherlock, in fact, had seen the look on his face. The tanks in the fish store, where they had found the murderer, had been highly reflective and he had had the displeasure of catching his reflection in one of them. He had looked ridiculous - rumpled, off-balance, and very red in the face. If this were anyone else than John laughing at the incident, he would have been offended. But, since this was, in fact, John, he knew that John's humor was based off of affection. Sherlock's deep chuckle joined with John's higher giggle.

"I had assumed their love of fish would have stopped them from endangering it," Sherlock replied.

"God, EMT's are a crazy lot," John concluded.

For a few moments there was no more conversation, merely snickers in the back of the cab. Soon, though, the laughter died down, and Sherlock and John sat comfortably in the back of the cab in silence.

Until, simultaneously, they remembered what they had been doing two days before they ran off to the crime scene. Astoundingly quickly, the air in the cab lost some of its warmth and the companionable silence turned awkward. Sherlock blushed ever so slightly and John began to pick at invisible lint on his trousers.

"So..." John began, clearing his throat. "What... ah... what do you think I should title the blog post?"

"Oh god," Sherlock said, not even bothering to answer. John grinned, and the air lost some of its tension.

"Fishy business?"

"No."

"Murder most... fishy?"

"No, don't even suggest that."

"How about-"

"No," Sherlock interrupted, before John could even work the title out of his mouth.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock," John teased. "Surely you can't think of anything better."

"There is, in this case, no better, John. Your blog will always be trite and overly-romantic."

John opened his mouth to complain, but saw the good-natured twinkle in Sherlock's eye. Cautiously, carefully, he reached out to take Sherlock's gloved hand from where it rested on his knee, and was genuinely surprised when Sherlock not only let him, but in fact seemed eager to wrap their hands together. Slowly, John looked up at Sherlock, who was still watching their delicately entwined hands on the seat between them.

"Overly-romantic? Are you sure that's a bad thing?" John almost-whispered, testing out this new... whatever it was between them.

Sherlock quickly turned his head, his face almost - _almost_ \- as red as it had been when the lionfish, hurled at his face by the irate EMT-come-fishstore-clerk, flew over his head. But this time, instead of chuckling, John smiled fondly. He couldn't help but think of the Grinch that one Christmas day, when his heart swelled to four times its normal size as a pleasant buzz seemed to manifest in his stomach - a heady mixture of affection, happiness, adrenaline, and a dash of nerves. His heart thumped heavily in his chest, and he would bet money that at that moment Sherlock could count his pulse in his hand, his blood pressure was so high. He wanted this, whatever _this_ was.

Soon, they rolled up to the curb outside their flat. Sherlock, in an unusual display of thoughtfulness, paid for the cab while John got out and unlocked the door. He stepped over the threshold and was quickly followed by his flatmate.

Sorry, not followed. _Attacked_. He was quickly _attacked_ by his flatmate.

The moment the door shut behind the two of them, Sherlock shoved John against the doorway and had begun attempting to shove his tongue down John's throat, his large hands cupping John's jawline. While he appreciated the sentiment, John had a few concerns and brusquely pushed Sherlock back.

"Mrs Hudson-" John began.

"Isn't home," Sherlock finished for him, choosing to attack John's neck instead of his mouth now.

"And what-" John's voice cracked as Sherlock found that one spot right below his ear. "And what do you - you want?"

"Obvious." Sherlock turned to attack the other side of John's neck, humming in pleasure when John couldn't bite back a moan.

"I- I'm serious, Sherlock," John managed to say, although his voice was breathy and strangled and embarrassingly high pitch. For someone who hadn't known where his own prostate was two days ago, Sherlock was _good_ at this.

Moving carefully as a lion tamer, Sherlock extricated himself from John's neck. He delicately placed his forehead against John's. John stared at him, all the beautiful little scars across Sherlock's face like constellations on a pale sky from this distance. After gathering his breath, Sherlock opened his eyes and murmured, his voice deep and soft and lustful:

"You, John. All of you."

Judging by the widening of Sherlock's eyes, he was a little surprised at how pale John became when all of his blood rushed to his cock. He had never gotten that hard that quickly in his _life_ , not even when his second girlfriend gave him that - well, that was a story for another day.

"Bedroom. Now."

He grabbed Sherlock's wrist like a drowning man might grab a rope, and pulled the other man up the stairs into their flat - pausing for rough kisses against the banister every few steps. They didn't even bother shutting the door to the flat before John began to distractedly unbutton Sherlock's (ridiculously tight) shirt. Amusingly, Sherlock didn't seem to know what to do with his hands, although he made a good show of trying to unbutton John's (now ridiculously tight) jeans.

"I." John began, successfully getting the first button on Sherlock's shirt done. He pressed a kiss to the exposed flesh.  
"Am going." Another button, and the kiss became rougher - a hint of teeth, a bit of suction. Sherlock was just beginning to get John's belt undone.  
"To finish." John had undone half of Sherlock's shirt now, and John's belt was in the process of being pulled off John's hips. A red mark was beginning to form on Sherlock's chest where John was worrying the skin.  
"What." Two buttons undone this time - one on Sherlock's shirt, one on John's jeans.  
"I." Two buttons left. Sherlock's shaking fingers managed to get a hold of John's zipper, and tugged.  
"Started." John forced Sherlock's hand away from where it was sliding into the back of his jeans and pulled the shirt off his shoulders.

"And what, pray tell, is that?" Sherlock whispered in that sinfully deep voice of his as he wrapped his arms around John's waist, one hand finding it's way into the back of John's trousers.

John carefully angled his head so that he was as close to Sherlock's ear as he could be without standing on his tip-toes. This meant his head was tilted up, his mouth just above Sherlock's shoulder, their cheeks just an inch apart.

" _Ruining you._ "

Sherlock audibly swallowed, and John grinned. It was something dark and feral, and widened as Sherlock tightened his grip on John's arse. After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock replied, his voice deep and rumbling:

" _Get to it, then._ "

For a moment, John was torn between relishing the moment - the softness of Sherlock's hands combined with the roughness of his grip, the butterflies left in his stomach from Sherlock's challenge, the silence of the flat broken only by their heavy breathing - and absolutely _shattering_ Sherlock.

In the end, temptation won. He slipped his fingers into Sherlock's belt loop and began to pull him into Sherlock's room.

"Wait- wait- John-"

John paused, torn between picking Sherlock up like a caveman and being a respectable human being who thought with his thinky-bits and not his dick.

"...We might want to do this in your room, instead."

John thought for a moment, his forehead wrinkled. "But... your bed is bigger. And those sheets-"

"I don't have any supplies."

A lightbulb went off over John's head, and he nodded. "Meet you in your room."

He ran off, taking the stairs up to his room two at a time. Sherlock stood still for a moment, taking stock of the situation, before yelling, "Last one naked is a rotten egg!" and pulling his shoes, trousers and pants off in a flurry of movement. He tossed them carelessly aside and trotted into his room, where he stripped the bed of his comforter (leaving on the sheets that John clearly lusted after) and,after a moment's thought, ran into the bathroom.

Upstairs, John took a minute to laugh at Sherlock's jibe, but agreed with the sentiment. In a split second he was unclothed, his trousers and socks landing just beside his hamper. He quickly located his box of condoms, but searched fruitlessly for a few minutes before remembering that his bottle of lube was still in the bathroom where it hand languished since the hiccup incident, as John was beginning to think of it. He jogged downstairs - taking a moment to close the door to their flat - and wandered into Sherlock's room. It was, as per the norm, disturbingly clean when compared to the general mess of the rest of the flat. Unusually, the comforter was on the floor yet the sheets were undisturbed. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, but even John's rudimentary skills at observation and deduction could tell that this was due to Sherlock cleaning off in the bathroom - the tap was running.

John decided to make himself at home, and threw himself down onto the middle of the bed where he lounged comfortably.

A few minutes later Sherlock walked out of the bathroom, the bottle of lube in his hand. "I won, by the way."

"Sorry?"

"I was the first one naked. I won."

John looked Sherlock up and down from his position on the bed and smirked. "No you weren't."

"Preposterous. Of course I-" Then he looked down, to where John was pointing. He was still wearing his socks.

Bugger.

Staunchly not taking them off, he walked to the foot of the bed. He stood there for a moment, hands on his hips conveniently leading John's gaze to his erection. It was thin and of average length, with a rosy head that made John _drool_. And this time, he would willingly admit to it.

John sat up, an evil gleam in his eye, and crawled to Sherlock. He grabbed Sherlock's hips, right above the other man's larger hands, and pulled him closer. Sherlock felt the crinkle of the condom where it was hidden in it's wrapper in John's fist. John didn't immediately attack Sherlock's cock, but instead pressed his face to the skin of Sherlock's abdomen, where he relished the smell and feel of human skin. He wanted to worship this man and tear him apart.

Above him, Sherlock was breathing in short gasps. His large hands clung at John's shoulders, not pulling him in or pushing him away. His ice-blue eyes, pupils overwhelming his irises in lust, stared down at him unblinkingly.

John mentally photographed the look on Sherlock's face - awed, compelling, and strangely innocent - and pressed a kiss to his new lover's hip before ripping open the condom and slowly - painfully slowly - sliding it onto Sherlock's cock.

"Sorry," he said, momentarily alarming Sherlock, "I never quite got the hang of putting these things on with my mouth."

Sherlock didn't have the time to come up with a witty retort as John put the head of his cock into his ( _warm, soft, so good_ ) mouth. Gently, so painfully gently, he began to apply suction.

"Oh- oh god- _John_ -"

John grinned around the cock in his mouth and did his best to look up at Sherlock's face. The other man was hunched over, muscles tight as he fought to stay upright and hair wild from where he clutched at it with his own hand. His dusty pink nipples were peaked, and John reached a hand up to tease one. This elicited a deep, surprised gasp from Sherlock, who's thighs began to tremble and knees began to knock.

John certainly felt flattered.

He slowly, teasingly bobbed his head along the shaft, his right hand gently encircling the base to keep it still. John didn't know it yet, but this was the first blowjob Sherlock could remember having - quite possibly his first one _ever_ \- and boy, was he making a good impression.

Sherlock whimpered and whined and all but _begged_ as John began to speed up his pace, occasionally dragging himself away from the beautiful cock before him to lay kisses to the surrounding pelvic region or to simply lick up its shaft. Slowly, his hand began to move away from the nipple it was playing with and snake around Sherlock's side, to grip at his buttocks - his smooth, beautiful arse - and to wind its way into the crack found there.

As soon as John's finger found Sherlock's hole, John found himself in a flurry of limbs, then suddenly flat on his back with a condom being put on _his_ dick. Sherlock attacked his dick with an almost ruthless efficiency - he licked his way from the base of John's fat cock all the way to the top, before _holy shit was he deep-throating him_?! John's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he fought against thrusting into Sherlock's throat.

 _Not proper etiquette, mate_ , John thought. It was his last coherent thought in a while.

He clutched at Sherlock's shoulders mindlessly, not seeing Sherlock's left hand snaking back to his own hole - in fact, he didn't know much else at that moment other than the warmth and softness and pressure around his dick.

"Sherlock," he gasped, voice breathless. Sherlock basked in the way his legs twitched and shook. "Oh, God, Sherlock. You're amazing."

What Sherlock discovered at this moment in time was that when John was being pleasured, an endless stream of praise fell out of his mouth. While Sherlock worshiped his body with his tongue, John worshiped him with his words.

Precisely applied suction: " _Perfect_."

A kiss to the fraenulum: " _Incredible, oh God_."

A suck on John's testes: " _Genius, you're a Genius, fucking hell-_ "

Taking John in all the way down to his root, burying his nose in his pubic hair, earned Sherlock a wanton cry of delight.

Sherlock brushed past his own prostate once more, shuddering in expectation, before removing himself from John's cock and crawling up his body. John ravenously attacked Sherlock, kissing him like it was the only thing keeping him alive, his strong, small hands trembling and shaking and clinging to Sherlock like he was a raft in a storm. Sherlock, to be honest, wasn't much better - his whole body shook but his mind felt _electric_. Like he could solve Jack the Ripper. Like he had just discovered the elusive chemical compound used in a complex series of murders. Like he had just solved the perfect murder.

Sherlock felt John let go of one of his shoulders and instead use it to guide his cock to Sherlock's open, empty hole. He made a noise that sounded suspiciously like, "Please?", although Sherlock wasn't entirely sure.

He simply sunk down.

John's cry of delight echoed through him. His whole body sung. Yes, the stretch was unpleasant, but John's cock opened him and touched him and filled him and pushed him and felt _like heaven_. Before that moment, Sherlock adamantly did not believe in any divine being. After that moment, he privately considered himself agnostic. 

"John, please. Please. _Fuck me_."

He thrust into Sherlock's body. Slowly at first, before gaining speed. Soon, the entire bed was shaking. The only reason Sherlock was able to stay on top of John was his ruthless grip on Sherlock's hips. His fingerprints would leave bruises, proof that John had been there, proof that John had managed to _fuck_ Sherlock while _making love_ to him and calling him _beautiful, gorgeous, perfect, genius, genius, genius_ -

There was a hand on Sherlock's cock, a warm, small, calloused hand, that gently - so very gently - pulled. Within moments, Sherlock was screaming his pleasure, doubled over onto John, shaking.

Once, twice, thrice more John thrust, before moaning long and low into Sherlock's shoulder and shuddering.

Their panting was, momentarily, the only sound in the otherwise silent room. Then, someone - they're still not sure who - started giggling. Soon they were laughing, foreheads touching, smiles lighting up their faces. Sherlock rolled off of john, giving him room but still leaving a hand upon his lover's chest.

"That was- yeah, that was good, very good," John managed, breathlessly.

"We should have done that earlier," Sherlock somehow said in a perfectly composed voice.

They looked at each other for a moment before breaking out in laughter again, curling in to face each other. The room stank of sweat and sex, and they both still had condoms on, and somehow the fitted sheet had come loose, but they had each other and they were drunk in new love, and so the moment was perfect.

"I'm going to title the post, "A Sting Operation."

"That's the worst one yet, John."

And then John hiccuped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you Jesus for the a capella version of Cruel Angel's Thesis which I listened to repeatedly while writing this.  
> thank you Mary for Sherlock's bum.  
> thank you God for John's giant cock.  
> thank you Vhuzompha, Mother and Father of All Marine Life, the Hermaphroditic god, for creating fish.
> 
> p.s. i based the murderer off of myself because why not?
> 
> P.p.s. _Pterios volitans_ is the Volitan, or Red, lionfish and is very common in the pet trade for it's beautiful, plume-like fins and fantastic coloration. Pet lionfish kill more people every year than sharks. Please handle these beautiful fish with care!
> 
> P.p.p.s. The murder happened as such: A volunteer EMT was bored. They also worked at a fish store. They knew that lionfish venom was very similar to bee venom and as such, if someone who was allergic to bees got stung by a lionfish, they would go into anaphylactic shock. So one day they bought a lionfish, placed it in their neighbor's tank, then went to the fire station. That night the neighbor attempted to take the lionfish out of the tank and got stung in the process, having just enough time to recognize their anaphylactic shock and call 999, although they were not close enough to their epipen to inject themselves. The ambulance arrived (of which the murderer was on board) and attempted (unsuccessfully) to revive them. The police were baffled as there was no evidence of a bee sting, not knowing how similar lionfish venom and bee venom were. Lestrade was confused and called Sherlock. It was actually John who made the connection between lionfish venom and bee venom - he actually treated a reaction to it once when he was in training.
> 
> always remember to wash your butt before anal sex. seriously the amount of times i've read fics where NO ONE CLEANS UP is just DISGUSTING. (In my previous chapter, Sherlock washed his butt before trying to stick his fingers up there, I just didn't explicitly write it in).


	3. Doctor Watson's Misdiagnosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor Watson is left in Nurse Sherlock's care, and makes several discoveries.  
> Aka This time, John gets the hiccups.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know of any typos. This was not beta'd or brit-picked and was written on my phone as my computer is broken.  
> This is mostly smut but at the end there's a tiny bit of plot?! Oh my god!

It was all because of the champagne.

Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say it all _culminated_ with the champagne.

In either case, John had an idea. It was possible the idea had been brewing in the back of his mind for several weeks now, only to be recognized as a _good_ idea upon the introduction of alcohol. It is entirely possible as well that Sherlock's mouth, warm and pliant over his, and the euphoric atmosphere of a post-case flat had as much, if not more, to do with John's decision to execute his idea.

You see, Dear Reader, John was hopelessly in love with his flatmate-cum-boyfriend. This may not exactly be _news_ , but the pair of detectives were still enjoying the honeymoon phase of their new relationship and John, for once the more romantically-inclined partner, wanted to do something _special_ for Sherlock. The two of them, so far, had a wonderful (and frequent) sex life. John enjoyed their liaisons immensely and was able to deduce that Sherlock was quite pleased as well. It wasn't a hard deduction, really. However, John was beginning to notice their liaisons were beginning to follow a pattern, especially when it came to penetrative sex. Now, while some may find routine and expected roles comforting, John H. Watson, MD, was a man of action and the unexpected. And at this moment in time, with his hand on his boyfriend's bum, champagne in his blood, a smile on his mouth, and Sherlock's voice in his ear, John came to a decision.

He wanted to try bottoming.

However, John H. Watson, MD, Man of Action Extraordinaire, was not a man of _words_ , and was left quite clueless as to how to bring up to his partner that he wished to be the receiving partner for the first time.

This, of course, was when serendipity struck:

John hiccuped.

Sherlock stopped devouring John's mouth and pulled back, to better look at him. John's jumper and shirt were both on the coffee table, leaving the army doctor in only his vest and rumpled trousers. John lay under Sherlock on their too-short sofa, one hand on Sherlock's rear and another in his curls. His face was flushed, his short-cropped hair mussed, and his kiss-swollen mouth was curved in a mischievous grin.

John hiccuped again.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, as if suspicious. John grinned wider.

"I guess - *hic* - we should do something - *hic* - about this, huh? *Hic.*" To emphasize his point, John raised his pelvis off the cushions and ground himself against Sherlock.

"I suppose if anal stimulation works to stop hiccuping, then perhaps penile stimulation may work as well." Damn it, how did Sherlock manage to make that sound sexy? It was simply unreasonable. Still, John gathered his willpower.

"Not what I was - *hic* - suggesting, Sherlock."

"Then what were -" Sherlock caught the look in John's eye and finally understood the mischievous smirk on his face. 

"Oh."

John hiccuped in response, then giggled.

"Shall we... uh..."

Sherlock had no right looking this flustered. He had risen off of John and was sitting on the edge of the couch now, his eyes darting across the room. It was up to John, apparently.

"Let's clean up - *hic* - for the procedure, right - *hic* - _nurse_?"

John slowly stood up. Then, gently, he took Sherlock's hand and guided him upright. It was then the detective seemed to get the idea. John could practically _see_ the light bulb go off over Sherlock's head. Still, sensing Sherlock was not quite sure of what he was doing, John (while still hiccuping) lead them to the bathroom.

Once they got into the bathroom (which, for two drunken grown men, was admittedly difficult), Sherlock crowded John against the sink, his erection rubbing against John's arse.

"Tell me, _doctor_ ," Sherlock growled into John's ear, eliciting a gasp from the smaller man, "How, exactly, does this procedure go?"

John would have had smiled wildly had another hiccup not come along. Instead he turned around and grasped Sherlock's skinny shoulders.

"We - *hic* - are going to get _clean_ ," he ordered, "And then you - *hic* - are going to _fuck me into tomorrow_."

John could feel Sherlock's grin against his cheek.

"Sir, yes sir," he responded, before twisting the pair of them around and pushing John up against the opposite wall.

To be quite honest, making out while hiccuping was an... odd experience, but the pair of them were drunk and aroused enough to not let it affect their libidos. Somehow, Sherlock was able to turn on the water with one hand, and the spray only encouraged them to get their clothes off quicker. Soon, the water was warm, the pair of them were naked - even their socks were off - and Sherlock was admiring a purple bruise blossoming on John's chest as he pulled the two of them into the tub and under the water.

John was entranced by Sherlock's mouth. His plush lips were so biteable, his mouth so lickable. He tasted of expensive champagne and andrenaline, with a hint of the curry they had eaten for dinner. He was divine, and John attempted to tell him so - which, considering the hiccups and the fact their mouths were practically glued together - was quite a challenge.

Sherlock, cruel, cruel Sherlock, gave John a final, chaste kiss before removing his mouth from John's mouth and instead moving it to John's throat.

John was set to complain, until he felt a soapy finger dance along his crack. He nearly jumped at the sudden touch, but had just enough awareness to acknowledge how disastrous a tumble in the tub would be. Instead, he moaned around a hiccup (truly one of the most bizarre noises to ever come out of John Watson's mouth), and leaned onto Sherlock.

A low, happy rumble came from Sherlock, who switched from the left side of John's neck to the right, and began to tease John's hole.

John had, in all honesty, not been touched like this since Charlene, who - well, suffice it to say that it had been a while. It was an odd sensation, pleasurable, but somehow _wrong_. Gently, Sherlock's soapy forefingers rubbed at John's opening, all at once relaxing the muscle and cleaning it.

John hiccuped once more, and Sherlock gently eased a finger in. He froze for a moment, unused to and quite frankly unexpecting the intrusion, before Sherlock moved to reclaim John's mouth. Soon, John was all but melted against Sherlock, and was beginning to enjoy the way the long digit moved inside of him.

All too soon, Sherlock pulled away from John's mouth. John was able to take a good look at Sherlock, with his sopping mop of hair and crooked grin, before he was pushed against the wall and his cheeks were spread.

John was an adventurous man. This was a well-known fact, and was something he was quite proud of. However, John had never had anybody's tongue up his bum before. It was, for a lack of better terminology, an experience. Sherlock ate John's arse like it was his last meal. His tongue, normally sharp and dripping with venom, lapped at John's hole like it was water in the desert. John's knees shook. His hands trembled. His eyes rolled into his skull. A high-pitched keening noise left his mouth, causing Sherlock to chuckle. He took pity on John, and reached around to palm John's rock-hard cock.

The influx of sensation caused John to buck and cry out. Sherlock retreated a little, simply holding onto John's cock, and bit at the curve of John's arse.

John, his brain so scrambled that it started to work again, slammed the water off and grabbed at the towel rack, throwing one at Sherlock.

"Bed. Now."

The two of them managed to get out of the bathroom and into the bedroom they now shared most nights without slamming into each other or slipping on wet tile, which was quite a feat considering the state they were in. Soon they were mostly dry (and still very randy), and John fell onto the bed, attempting his best "come hither" eyes. His best "come hither" eyes were admittedly not very impressive, but they still worked on Sherlock. He clambered up onto the bed then crawled up John's body, stopping his ascent only once his mouth was reattached to John's.

For a moment in time, they drowned in each other. They reveled in the feel of skin upon skin and relished the gentle friction of their lips. John took a moment to reach down and tug on Sherlock's cock, which was beginning to leak slightly upon his thigh. Sherlock groaned in appreciation and rested their foreheads against each other for a moment, before taking a rare moment to be courteous:

"Are you sure, John?" He rumbled.

"Please!"

Sherlock threw open the dresser on the end table, before scrabbling around in it for the lube. All the while, he and John were once more affixed at the lips, with John clutching at Sherlock's cheeks like a drowning man may cling to a piece of jetsam.

Soon, Sherlock had the lube open, and John's thighs were spread around Sherlock's hips. Sherlock had two fingers in John almost immediately, and unerringly found John's prostate, causing him to make needy little noises with every twist and thrust of his fingers.

(If ever John Watson found a recording of the noises he makes while drunk and being fingered, he would be mortified. Fortunately, no recording of the incident was ever made, and John H. Watson, MD, Man of Action Extroardinaire, will retain his dignity).

It had admittedly been many years since anyone else had done this to John, but he was quickly remembering how to angle his body for easiest access, how to relax himself, and how to make the little voice in his head that said " _this is wrong!_ " shut up. He was quickly gasping for breath, and needed _more_.

"Please, Sherlock," he begged, "I need you."

This stopped Sherlock in his tracks. John believed that his momentary stillness was due to a sudden idea or the need to reassure himself. In reality, John's mindless begging turned Sherlock on so much he was certain he was going to come if he so much as brushed against the sheets.

In due time, though, Sherlock sat up on his knees and poured lubricant over his cock. He gave himself a good few tugs for good measure and, satisfied with the slickness, began to line himself up with John's hole.

John had been well-stretched and lubed, but he still felt a moment of slight stretch and burn as Sherlock's fraenulum slipped into his body. Slowly, Sherlock guided himself into John's body, and John relaxed and adjusted to the intrusion. After forever and all too quickly Sherlock bottomed out against John's bum and held him close, hands on John's hips, shuddering slightly. John wrapped his legs around Sherlock's hips, then gently pushed hair out of Sherlock's face.

"Are you alright?" He asked, genuinely concerned by the trembling man on top of - _inside of_ \- him.

At this moment in time, Sherlock was more or less incapable of forming coherent words. Instead, he settled for pressing open mouthed kisses to John's nipples, which caused John to arch and cry out.

Slowly, cautiously, Sherlock began to move inside of John. Sweat began to form on both of them, as Sherlock thrust and John rose up to meet him, as their chests rose and fell, as hands gripped hips and shoulders and curls. Sherlock passed against John's prostate more often than not, sending a constant stream of shivers up and down John's spine.

John quickly took to crying out with each thrust. Some of it was nonsense, merely grunts, but on the occasion where John formed a coherent word - usual "Fantastic" or "Brilliant" or even just "Sherlock!" - Sherlock would falter, unaccustomed to the strange fullness in his heart.

The two of them built up a steady, powerful rhythm, and Sherlock began to feel a coiling in his belly. He reached in between the two of them to grasp at John's flushed cock. It only took a few mistimed strokes before John was crying out and coming, painting both of them with his come and tensing around Sherlock.

Sherlock thrust only a few more times, before pulling out and tugging on his cock, crying out as he came upon the same spot as John.

Slowly, he collapsed upon John, tucking his head on John's broad shoulder. Soon, their breathing evened out, and John reached for Sherlock's hand. They lay like that for several minutes, just clutching at the other and breathing, reveling in their tiny bit of peace.

All too soon John shrugged Sherlock off of himself to grab a flannel, and wipe the two of them off - as he knew Sherlock never would. He threw it on the floor, not caring about where it landed, and lay once again next to Sherlock.

"I cannot believe it actually worked," Sherlock eventually declared.

"Hmm?" John was half way to sleep at this point.

"Anal stimulation, John, do keep up. I am simply shocked that anal stimulation does, indeed, cure the hiccups!"

Sleepily, John grinned and turned towards Sherlock. "I thought we decided that weeks ago."

"Oh, no, I was faking that, then," he responded.

Suddenly, John was wide awake. And sitting upright. "I'm sorry, what?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, dramatically as usual, before closing his eyes and turning to one side. "I'm was faking the initial case of hiccips, John, don't be tedious."

"Wha..." John appeared to be at a loss for words. "Why would you DO that?"

Sherlock cracked open an eye. He then noticed how flustered and apparently angry John was, and so deigned to open both eyes.

"You were never going to make a move," he explained lazily, "so I manufactured a situation in which we would become intimate."

"You- Sherlock - why - You can't DO that!"

Suddenly, John was off the bed and stomping towards the door. Sherlock was so thoroughly flummoxed that he remained frozen for a good few seconds, before vaulting off the bed.

But John had already thrown on his trousers and his shirt, and was storming out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun DUUUUUNNNN


	4. Applying Sutures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly Hooper, MD, aides Dr. John Watson and Mr. Sherlock Holmes in the delicate process of repairing their relationship.
> 
> Or: Molly is a saint and Sherlock doesn't deserve her friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, un-brit-picked  
> Holy shit I've left you guys hanging for a YEAR I'm so sorry  
> Tbh I've been smacked by some new muses, but I wasn't gonna start a new project until I finished this one.  
> The special didn't really do it for me, tbh.  
> This ended up being longer than I intended???

Sherlock had stood tensely in the living room, staring at the door as if it could call John back to him, back to their home.

Downstairs, he heard Mrs. Hudson's door open.

"Boys? Are you there?"

Sherlock didn't respond, choosing instead to quietly retreat into his room. Through the old wooden floors, he heard Mrs. Hudson titter about the abuse her boys put her house through. He crawled into his bed, still warm from _John_ , and covered his head with a pillow.

***

John had slept in his own room that night, and didn't speak to Sherlock in the morning before he left - to do what, Sherlock wasn't sure. He hadn't wanted to look closely enough at John to be able to deduce it.

He was aware that he had hurt John's feelings - the slammed doors were more than enough to tell him so - but he just didn't know what he'd done _wrong_. It's not like he'd forced himself on John - he merely fabricated a situation wherein John could feel comfortable engaging in sexual contact with Sherlock. He understood and respected John's boundaries. He had just gotten tired of waiting for John to get his metaphorical act together and _kiss him_ , god damn it!

And if John had happened to go a little bit farther than kissing, well - Sherlock was immensely satisfied with the direction that afternoon had taken.

He took a private moment for himself, remembering how John's hands had felt like magma on his rump, how John's tongue had felt like silk as it opened him up.

This line of thinking was not conducive to solving the problem (re: John Watson being unreasonably emotional). Clearly he needed someone to ground him, to be his light in place of John just for a moment. He thought about who he could ask.

Mycroft was, for obvious reasons, out of the question.  
Mrs. Hudson was practically his mother. He didn't want to discuss his relationship with _her_ , partially because he knew Mrs. Turner would eventually hear about it, and from there the rest of the geriatric Londoner population.  
His actual parents would not be useful in this situation. They would probably start telling him a story from his childhood which would be absolutely no help at all.  
Lestrade's advice couldn't be trusted - he wasn't even officially divorced yet, and he was already seeing Molly!

...Molly. She, in all her awkward, asocial glory, had likely experienced something very similar. Possibly even been able to salvage the relationship, even if it obviously hadn't lasted long after that. Perhaps, just this once, she would be a good source of advice.

Still laying in bed more tensely than anyone had any right to be on such an expensive mattress, he picked up his phone and dialed Molly. She picked up on the third ring - probably elbow-deep in the intestinal cavity of that cadaver with the strangely bloated abdomen. He would have to ask her about that... After discussing John's irrational behavior.

"Hello?"

"Ah, good, Molly, so pleasant to hear your voice!"

"...What do you want, Sherlock?"

"Who says I want anything?"

Molly sighed into the receiver. She was so dramatic. "Sherlock, I really need to get back to work -"

"The bloating is obviously due to an internal parasite, likely a large tapeworm that died shortly after the cadaver's death and is just now beginning to decompose. You don't _really_ need to get back to work."

"Bye, Sher-"

"Wait! Please!" He hated how panicked his voice sounded. It was pathetic.

"Out with it, Sherlock."

Sherlock made an indecipherable mumbling noise.

"Really, Sherlock, if you're just going to waste my-"

"I pissed John off!" He panted for a moment after the outburst, before continuing. "I don't know what I did wrong! I understand he found a scenario I devised to be displeasing, but I don't know why!"

"...And what does this have to do with me?"

Sherlock blinked, stunned by Molly's audacity. He knew Lestrade had been telling her to not let Sherlock trample all over her and her work, but this level of self assertiveness was unprecedented.

"I was... hoping you... I was hoping that you could give me some advice."

A beat passed.

"Please."

"What?"

"Say please, Sherlock, or I'm hanging up now."

"That's preposterous. You can't-"

"One."

"Really? You're counting to three? I'm not some -"

"Two."

"-errant child that needs to be disciplined! I am an adult who is asking for your help! You should be grateful I think so highly of you!"

"Three. Bye, Sher-"

"PLEASE! Please help me figure out what I did wrong. Please, Molly, I can't lose him."

"Just ask him, Sherlock."

"What?" He was incredulous. John clearly didn't want to talk to him right now. Besides, he was a detective! Dare he say it, he was THE detective! He could figure out what he did wrong by himself! Just ASKING John felt like cheating!

"Ask him. He'll appreciate that you understand you did something wrong and that you're making steps to fix it."

"...Okay. What can I do _besides_ that?"

"Curl up and cry, I imagine. Maybe eat some ice cream."

"Molly!"

"Sherlock, I'm being serious. Communication is a serious part of being an adult."

"I have been an adult longer than you have, Molly, I know that!"

"Then act like it!"

Sherlock gasped in dismay, shocked and appalled that Molly Hooper - _Molly Hooper_ \- had talked to him like that. A part of him said that John would be proud of her for talking back to him like that.

"Fine. Fine! Say I do sit down and 'talk' to him. What do I actually _say_?"

"How about, 'I know I did something wrong and I hurt your feelings, but I'm unsure as to what and why. Could you please tell me?'"

"And put myself in such a disadvantageous position? No!"

"Do you want my advice or not, Sherlock?"

"...Has this ever even worked for you?"

"It's worked for people who have apologized to me!"

"So it only works on you, okay-"

"It works, you absolute _child_ , because it shows they care and want to rectify the situation! It works _because_ they put themselves at a disadvantage! It shows that they want to learn and to improve!"

Sherlock sat in stunned silence. Over the line, Molly breathed heavily.

"...When do I tell him this?" Sherlock asked tentatively.

"How about now?"

"Wha-"

Sherlock heard a brief scuffle, and then:

"What," John demanded.

"IknowIdidsomethingwrongandIhurtyourfeelingsbutI'munsureastowhatandwhycouldyoupleasetellme?"

"What was that, Sherlock?"

Sherlock grimaced at his phone, then tried again.

"I know I did something wrong," he enunciated carefully, every word tasting odd on his tongue, "and I know I hurt your feelings."

"Yeah, no shit."

Sherlock pointedly (and wisely) ignored the barb. "But I'm not sure what exactly I did wrong, nor why it hurt you. Could you please-" he ground his teeth as he forced the words out "-tell me what I did wrong?"

"You lied to me and used me."

"I did no such thing! I mean, yes, I used a false pretense to engage in sexual activity, but I did not use you!"

"...and you see nothing wrong with that?"

"Since you were amenable to the activity, not really."

"Sherlock. It's... You... I'm not..."

Sherlock pointedly bit his tongue to stop him from interrupting John's verbal floundering.

"I thought it was honest," he finally said. "I thought it was this amazing, hilarious thing. I thought it was genuine and real. Not some... planned thing to make me look like a fool."

"But it was, John!"

"It was something planned to make me look like a fool? Wow, didn't expect you to just admit it-"

"Not that. It was genuine. I mean, not the hiccups, but the... the..." he grimaced as he realized he needed to say the words, "the _feelings_. I needed you from the moment you shot Hope for me. Probably from the moment I set eyes on you, but I didn't know it then. I needed you by my side on a case, gun in hand. I needed you in my living room, throwing out my cigarettes. I needed you in every aspect of my life because you make me _better_ , John. At everything. And then I cured your limp, and I saw how you looked at me, and it was so easy to deduce you felt the same way.

"But you... you wouldn't make the final step. You wouldn't quit looking at me and finally _touch_ me. I couldn't just reach out and touch you, no - you'd be Mr. I-have-a-girlfriend, Mr. I'm-Not-Actually-Gay. You'd deny what you felt to save some imaginary idea of yourself, which wouldn't make you happy. Not in the long run.

"So I engineered a situation wherein _you_ would be in control. Where _you_ would find it easier to instigate sexual contact. Where you could no longer deny yourself what we could - and did - have.

"Because I needed you, John." His voice broke, and he continued in a whisper.

I... I still do. Every day."

The line went dead. Sherlock looked at his phone, betrayal clear on his face at the usually-loyal device's failure to perform. Then fear and anger warred on his features - his brows constricted and twitched, his eyes went wide, and his mouth opened and closed like some sort of eternally-chewing bovine.

Fear eventually won, causing him to jump out of bed. He paced relentlessly in his room, then decided pacing in the living room might offer him more of an advantage when - or, rather, _if_ \- John came home.

He was pawing at his hair, wondering if he should tell Mycroft to activate the GPS signal on John's phone when the man himself barrelled through the door and into Sherlock's trembling arms.

Sherlock had no time to react as John latched onto his neck, immediately sucking a huge, purple bruise onto the delicate skin of Sherlock's nape.

"Wha- John- don't you hate me?"

John chuckled, slightly darker than his usual euphoric giggle, and picked Sherlock up by his arse. Sherlock yelped and wrapped his legs around John's hips, uneasy as John carried him into his bedroom. He dumped Sherlock onto the bed before shedding his jacket and climbing on top of him.

"I don't understand half the things you do, you idiot," he said, once his thighs bracketed Sherlock's hips. A calloused hand reached up and gently, so gently cupped Sherlock's cheek. "But, God help me, I need you too." John bent down and pressed his chapped lips to Sherlock's. He kissed back, willing the tears in his eyes to go away. John was with him, John was kissing him, John was taking off his shirt - why did they want to fall?

John sat back, for a moment, before delicately wiping away the tear that had crept out of the corner of Sherlock's eye.

"Sherlock?" He asked softly, carefully, "what's wrong?"

"Absolutely nothing," Sherlock responded, before pulling John closer to him. Their lips met again, with Sherlock more of an active participant than perhaps ever - his long fingers gripped at John's hair and tugged deftly at his belt. John had snuck his hand under Sherlock's vest, and pulled at a peaked nipple.

Sherlock broke away from the kiss to moan, and used their momentary separation to pull John's belt from its loops. John grinned in a manner that can only be described as "cheekily," before unbuckling his pants and sinking onto the floor between Sherlock's legs. Sherlock raised himself onto his elbows to watch as John, still in his jumper, gently tugged Sherlock's still-soft cock out from the slit between his briefs.

Making glorious eye contact, John licked his lips, then lowered his head.

It took no time at all for John's warm, eager mouth to tease Sherlock to full hardness. Whereas John sang praises to Sherlock when he sucked John's thick, beautiful cock, Sherlock seemed to go offline. John's hard-working mouth pulled the most obscene sounds from Sherlock - a lick from root to head earned him a deep, shivering sigh. Teasing the head of Sherlock's cock with his nimble, pink tongue pulled glorious whines from him. And taking Sherlock's cock into his mouth, as deeply as he could take it, earned him a moan so deep and sinful that he had absolutely no choice but to pull himself out of his own boxers and start jerking himself off, the taste of Sherlock's cock in his mouth simply adding to his euphoria.

Sherlock's whole body shivered when he looked down his body, at John pleasuring himself with Sherlock's cock in his mouth. Then he grabbed John by the armpits and hauled him onto the bed, giving him really no choice in the matter.

Sherlock twisted his body so his bare feet were on the pillows, his mouth at John's crotch.

Conveniently, John's mouth was at Sherlock's crotch as well.

Almost simultaneously, they took the other into their mouths and groaned in delight. The feeling of filling, of being filled, of their hands running along their lover's body and briefly joining in the middle, gave them both a heady rush. Sure, the angle wasn't perfect, and John had to stretch a little, but it wasn't at all long before Sherlock started shuddering in earnest.

"John-" he sputtered from around John's cock, "I'm gonna-"

John simply maintained his pace, reaching down to pinch at Sherlock's oh-so-pinchable nipples. With a wordless cry, Sherlock came into John's eager mouth, who swallowed most of it down, save for a few drops that ran lazily out of his mouth.

Sherlock simply breathed around John's thick cock, before collecting himself and redoubling his efforts. John let his head hang back, one hand grabbing at Sherlock's surprisingly plush arse.

"Oh, God, Sherlock!

"For an idiot, holy shit, you're a fucking _genius_ -

"You're so fucking gorgeous, so fucking gorgeous-

"Oh, _love_ , I'm so close-"

When Sherlock reached around to tease at John's hole with one slim finger, John arched and came with a wordless cry. He spilled into Sherlock's throat, who swallowed it all down, relishing the pleasure he knew he brought to John. Proof that he wasn't completely horrible.

Sherlock scooted up the bed and they lay side-by-side, panting heavily. John still had some of Sherlock's cum on his face, and he absentmindedly reached over and wiped it off with his thumb, which he then stuck in his own mouth.

"Fuck, Sherlock, I haven't been able to do a round-two so quickly since I was thirty, don't make me try."

Sherlock smiled lazily, purposefully licking his lips. John groaned as if in pain.

Together, they laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly I wanted to end this with John kissing Sherlock and Sherlock crying but I felt like it wouldn't be fair to you, dear readers.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments!
> 
> THIS IS FINALLY DONE.


End file.
